


Instep

by toomuchplor



Series: Unkissed [10]
Category: Inception (2010) RPF, The Dark Knight Rises (2012) RPF
Genre: Breathplay, Burlesque, Crossdressing Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Feminizing Talk, Fetish Clothing, Foot Fetish, Genderfuck, Genderqueer, M/M, Shoes, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:58:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <img/>
            </blockquote>





	Instep

**Author's Note:**

> Came about entirely because lately wanted me to write French cabaret RPF and I was too lazy to do the requisite research. Set sometime after July 2012.
> 
> **Content Notes:** Contains lots  & lots of kinks, including shoe/foot fetish, fetish/burlesque wear, crossdressing, gender fuckery/queerness, feminizing talk, D/s overtones, (accidental) breathplay, and (hints of) spanking, as well as your more run-of-the-mill gay sex. All that being said, the basic tone of the fic is that Tom convinces Joe to try something, and Joe likes it more than he expected. Based off wild and completely unsubstantiated conjecture regarding the kinks of those involved and not, in any way, meant to reflect real life. (Unless, of course, you want to read something into Tom's oft-quoted passion for women's shoes and Joe's propensity to crossdress. *cough*)

"I don't know," Joe says. He’s only made aware of his attempt to sigh by how the corset thwarts it. He sounds more amused than put-upon, with a half-breathless little panting noise chasing his words.  "It has to be looser, probably. I can't sing like this, for one thing."

Tom fiddles with the laces at the back, but if he's trying to ease the fit he's doing a crappy job.  Joe blinks at his reflection as Tom tugs at the lacing and Joe's body goes even more hourglass shaped.  Joe has hips, hippy hips. He has a little waist.  He even has -- "Stop that, you're giving me cleavage," Joe grins.

"Impossible," Tom says, and jams his fingers down the front of Joe's blue frilly silk corset.  "You could smuggle a pair of mangoes in here."

"I," Joe says, raising one eyebrow, "I think I'm sort of hurt by that."

"It's alright," Tom tells him, pinching Joe's right nipple, "I like you fine as you are, you lovely flat-chested tart."

"Hmm," Joe says, twisting his mouth around the grin that's threatening to erupt.  "This wouldn't exactly be a quick costume change. And I was a French maid just last year. It's too unoriginal. What if I was, like, Princess Leia or—“

"Trust me," Tom says, withdrawing his hand and sliding palms down to tug at the brief skirt that's disguising Joe's less-than-female undercarriage, "this is an entirely different look than that cheap little costume you had last year."

Joe pulls a doubtful face and squints at his reflection, only have his focus directed back to Tom when Tom's fingers drift lower and flirt with the tops of Joe's thigh-high baby blue stockings.

"This is purely recreational for you, isn't it?" Joe asks, amused.  He pouts just a little and affects a French accent. “Would monsieur care for a little burlesque number? Should I fetch my fan?”

"Where are the shoes?" Tom asks, unbothered, ignoring Joe's teasing.  "I know I saw shoes in the costume box."

"I don't do heels," Joe says, dropping the accent, shaking his head. "You know that."

"Go on, they'll complete the look," Tom says, all earnestness, like he could give a shit about completing the look when he’s already forbidden Joe from donning the powdered wig that had come with the costume. Wigs give Tom the creeps in a bad way. High heels, on the other hand — 

"You really think it's going to be sexy, seeing me wobble around and fall on my ass in those stupid stilettos?" Joe asks, laughing, shaking his head.

"Promise I'll never ask again," Tom says, solemn and blinking beautiful blue-grey eyes at Joe in the mirror.  "Just this once."

Joe meets Tom's gaze and very deliberately raises an eyebrow, tilts his mouth down on one side, conveying his disbelief as clearly as he can. Once, he might have believed Tom, bought into this little display of gentle patient solicitude. Once, Joe didn't know anything at all about Tom and his weird if impressive ability to keep a straight face, no matter how depraved his thoughts.

"Go on," Tom says, not breaking, serious and handsome and normal-sounding.

"Ugh," says Joe weakly, giving in. "Okay, you’d better get your camera out then, because I am _not_ giving you a repeat performance."

Tom's lascivious grin shatters his deadpan expression in a fraction of a second. "I'll go fetch it, you get the shoes," he says. He pauses to slip a hand under Joe's skirt, giving Joe’s cock a friendly squeeze before he dashes off.

Joe digs through the layers of tissue paper inside the costume box and comes up with satin heels that are the same powder blue and ivory as his corset, bedecked with lace trimming and small pink ribbon bows. They're not stilettos, really, but they’re not exactly kitten heels either: three inches high, even if they’re reassuringly chunky and stable-looking.  Joe fiddles the strap open on one shoe and sort of hates that he knows this many terms for women's footwear.  He blames Tom wholeheartedly.

Still, if Tom's devotion to heels has given Joe altogether too much information about the difference between a pump and a wedge, it's also apparently made Tom a good judge of shoe size.  When Joe stoops down and slips his foot into the shoe, he's sort of amazed how perfect the fit is.  It can't have been easy finding Louis XVI style satin burlesque heels, let alone ones that hug Joe's narrow long masculine feet so perfectly.

He drops the second shoe to the floor with a faint clatter and nudges his other foot into it a little recklessly, not sure if he's more impressed or embarrassed, but pretty certain he's going to fall over before he gets so far as sitting down to do up the straps.

“Don’t, I’ll do that,” Tom says, just as Joe looks around behind him to see how far back he’ll need to shuffle in order to reach the bed. “Stay — stay exactly there.”

Joe smirks and drops his hands to his sides, resisting the weird urge to feminize his every movement, the actorly pull to get into character now that’s he’s costumed. Joe’s no princess, he’s no Cinderella, no matter if a really stunningly gorgeous man is at this very moment dropping to one knee in front of Joe and slipping his strong masculine fingers around the wobbly column of Joe’s slender silk-clad ankle. 

Tom’s camera lies inches from where he’s kneeling, forgotten. If Tom’s acting now, he’s surpassed Joe’s ability to discern it, with the way he’s gone a bit bright-eyed and flushed. If he was anyone but Tom, Joe would think he was in the early stages of tipsiness. Tom doesn’t have any trouble with the little silver buckles, though, moving from one foot to the other briskly, sure-fingered. “There, now,” he says as he finishes, fingertips lingering over the surface of the shoe. 

Joe can’t feel the warmth of Tom’s hands now, not through the leather and satin and whatever else holds the shoe in its taut-stitched curves around Joe’s foot; no, the heat of Tom is lost through the layers between them, shoe and stocking, but when Tom’s fingers drag over the fabric just a little, it shivers through the whole side of Joe’s foot, buzzing ever-so-faintly in the seam between sole and upper, in the margins of satin rolled under at the top of the shoe. 

This is not, Joe reminds himself awkwardly, not his fetish. This is not — it’s too hard to breathe, trapped as he is inside satin and boning and lace, squeezed into unaccustomed breathlessness. “I’m going to fall over,” Joe blurts, more to distract himself with the sound of his own deep voice than anything. “I need to”— and Tom rolls up into a standing position with his usual grace, walks Joe backwards to the edge of the bed so Joe can ease down onto the mattress, sitting with a creak of corset and the rustle of lace. The position only worsens the constriction Joe feels, but at least he’s steady in his balance again, less dependent on the too-little points of contact between shoe and floor.

“Better?” Tom asks, with one hand curled hot and reassuring over the point of Joe’s shoulder.

Joe nods, forcing a smile. He looks down his body and sticks one foot out in front of him, swivelling his ankle and wiggling his toes inside the shoe. His foot’s foreshortened by the angle of the heel, and it looks weirdly small, dainty almost, even in these objectively whopping man-sized shoes. “How the fuck do girls do it?” he wonders out loud. “It’s like trying to walk around on stilts.”

“You could walk on stilts if you put your mind to it, I imagine,” Tom says, gaze unsubtle as it trails down Joe’s leg and fixes on his outstretched foot. “You’re athletic enough.”

“I guess I,” Joe starts to agree, but stops when Tom lifts a hand as though to touch.

“Sorry,” says Tom, freezing. “I shouldn’t — do you mind?”

Joe huffs a dry laugh. “Yeah, no, I mean — whatever. It’s just my foot.”

“Mm,” Tom says, like he agrees, but Joe’s never seen Tom look so reverent about touching Joe’s foot before, the way he goes back to one knee in genteel preparation, the way he leads with his fingertips as he strokes along the bits of Joe’s stocking that are left bare, under and over the strap. The silk drags, clings to the slightly rough pads of Tom’s fingers. As Joe watches, Tom’s ears flush pink and his mouth drops open.

Joe knows that look. Tom gets that look when he’s half a breath away from going down on Joe after too many weeks apart; Tom looks like that when Joe pulls one thigh up and dips a hand between his ass cheeks, teasing himself for Tom’s benefit. He’s not sure, then, why he feels like he needs to check, but he does. He shuffles his free foot over just a little, raises it from the floor while Tom’s still distracted, and nudges the pointed bow-bedecked toe of his shoe up into the V at the top of Tom’s thighs. At first he only feels the taut spring of Tom’s trousers where his legs are pulling at them, but then, a little higher, he traces the unmistakeable hard curve of Tom’s cock. He’s fully erect just from this, just from touching Joe’s ankles and feet framed in satin and lace and heels.

“Oh, christ,” Tom gasps, going still. “Joseph, fuck.”

It’s only then that Joe remembers: his shoes have pointy parts sticking out the bottoms, and his little curious motion has placed one such pointy part in rather dangerous proximity to Tom’s balls. “Shit, did I,” Joe blurts, abruptly unsure that Tom’s exclamation wasn’t one of distress, but even as he makes to yank his foot back, Tom’s hands close around Joe’s calf and trap him where he is.

“Don’t, just,” Tom says, and if he seemed tipsy before, now he’s nearly slurring drunk with lust. His grip is a little too insistent as he digs his fingers into the hard lean runner’s muscle of Joe’s calf. Tom shifts down from one knee to two, and as he settles back onto his haunches a little he pulls Joe’s foot along with him. Joe’s forced to slam his other foot to the floor a little ungracefully to catch his balance before he slips right off the edge of the bed. He’s afraid he digs the trapped foot into Tom’s groin as he windmills and regains his poise, but Tom — Tom hardly seems to mind, the way his eyelids flutter heavily and his hips roll upwards into the motion.

And it’s not like Joe didn’t know, before. Tom’s as unashamed and open about his kinks (which are many) as he is about just about everything that most people would consider slightly embarrassing and extremely personal. Tom tells strange reporters about his group therapy; he tells PAs about his dodgy status with US Immigration due to the trials of his misspent youth; he talks to directors about boosting cars and his daddy issues and his addiction recovery, and Joe knows for a fact that Tom will talk the ear off anyone who will listen when it comes to women’s shoes and how they make Tom feel. 

So Joe can hardly claim surprise, now, sitting with his heeled shoe planted on Tom’s crotch and watching Tom come rather spectacularly unglued from little more that Joe’s anxious clumsy wriggling. Only — only, Joe didn’t expect how it would make _him_ feel, how Tom’s eagerness would make Joe’s heart race faster, how Tom’s frantic arousal would spark want from the hot arch of Joe’s flexed foot all the way up the backs of his knees and in a direct line to Joe’s cock. “How,” Joe tries to ask, wanting to get this right, wishing he’d asked questions when Tom still had words, “should I — what do you want me to”—

“Shh,” says Tom, blinking up at Joe, holding Joe’s ankle steady in his hot hands. “Just —“ and he lifts his hips up a little more deliberately this time, so Joe has time to register the change under the sole of his shoe, the pressure as Tom rolls his hard cock against Joe’s foot. “Oh, god,” Tom breathes, dropping his gaze down and staring hungrily at Joe’s foot grinding against him now that Joe’s caught on, rolling his ankle gently side to side and then heel to toe. “So beautiful,” Tom murmurs, more to himself than anything. “So sexy, fuck.”

“Come a little closer,” Joe says, because he — he’s right on the edge of the bed, he’s got no leverage like this, with one leg outstretched and pinned by Tom’s hands.

Tom gasps a little, staring down open-mouthed at the juxtaposition of Joe’s satiny foot and his own straining fly.

Joe isn’t apologetic this time, or particularly gentle; he just pedals his foot and flexes his toes up, seeing more than feeling it as the heel of his shoe jabs into the soft underside of Tom’s crotch. It probably hurts. It’s definitely enough to make Tom pay attention, because his chin snaps up and he blinks at Joe with abrupt focus in spite of the hectic flush of his cheeks, the open plush drape of his wet mouth. “I said, come closer,” Joe says, very very softly, pushing his heel in just a little more.

Tom shuffles forward on his knees, enabling Joe to sit a bit further back on the bed without pulling his foot free. Tom loses no time in steadying the ball of Joe’s foot back against himself, grinding upwards in long blissful thrusts that have him groaning now. Joe leans back on his hands and watches, half amazed at how far gone Tom is, half wrecked by it himself. 

Joe’s doing so little, really; usually it’s a sort of clash between them, and Joe fucking loves that about their sex life, how it’s so physical and raw and unapologetically about need. But now Joe’s less subject than object, which should — _should_ be — but it’s _not_.

“God, christ, yes,” Tom chokes out when Joe experimentally lifts his other foot and hooks it over Tom’s shoulder, brushing the lace and satin side of his shoe against Tom’s face, his ear. “Joseph, I could come from this,” he says, more promise than threat, but suddenly it’s not what Joe wants, because it’s clear that much as Tom likes the heel against his cock, he’s as aroused by it against any part of his skin, and Joe — Joe has an idea.

“Don’t come,” Joe says, and slips the toe of his shoe down until he can dig its point gently against the base of Tom’s cock. “I want you to fuck me like this.”

Tom exhales shakily through his nose, eyes fixed on Joe’s face but clearly not actually seeing him. It’s not obvious whether he’s fighting for control or working against what must be the nearly painful press of Joe’s pointed toe into his cock.

“Take off your clothes,” Joe says, pulling his feet away because he’s fairly sure Tom isn’t capable of thinking while the heels are touching him. “I’ll get ready for you if you like,” he adds experimentally, watching as Tom fumbles with the buttons on his shirt. “Do you want me to be wet for you?” 

It’s like workshopping a character, maybe, deciding what kind of fucktoy he’s playing for Tom, what unexpected and delightfully queered mash-up he is — where he falls, between feminine and masculine, dominatrix and plaything, innocent and whore. Joe wishes suddenly that he’d done his make-up, false lashes and messy smudged eyeliner and kiss-smeared blood-red lips. He wants, abruptly, to be pretty for Tom, pretty and broken and filthy.

“Fuck,” Tom forces out, and gives up on his shirt buttons, yanking it up and over his head with little grace. When he pulls free his hair is going seven directions at once but Joe can see how his flush of arousal goes down his shoulders and chest, tattoos black-on-pink like they normally only are when they’re already fucking, when Tom is under Joe arching and trembling. “Yes, I,” Tom says, clambering unsteadily to his feet like he’s the one in three-inch heels, fighting with his fly now, struggling to work his zipper open over the insistent bulge of his heavy hard cock, “make it wet, I want to — god, please.”

Joe has to be a bit careful himself as he reaches up under the brief satiny skirt and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the matching panties. They’re damp in front where he’s been leaking precome; he supposes they weren’t going to return the costume anyway after they fucked in it. 

He lifts his hips and shimmies out of the panties, the sort of move he’s seen girls execute with probably a lot more grace than this, but fuck it, fuck it, Joe can’t help but feel kind of deliciously slutty anyway as his cock springs free and pushes up into the rough tulle under his skirt, sticky-pretty intersection of girl-boy echoed by the way the panties fall down his silk-stockinged calves with dark leg hair shadowed through the fabric. He kicks the panties off one heeled foot and then the other before grabbing the bottle of lube off the bedside table and flinging himself backwards on the bed, drawing one leg up and tossing his skirt onto his belly so Tom can see for himself, Joe’s hard cock and skinny masculine ass framed in all that satin and tulle and silk.

“God, you’re amazing,” Tom rasps, frozen with one leg still in his pants, staring unapologetically. “Gorgeous dirty thing, you are.”

Joe is a bit slapdash in his preparations, maybe, but he doesn’t mind if it hurts a little when it means that he can have Tom on him a little sooner. Tom scarcely waits anyway, crawling up onto the bed and over Joe the instant Joe beckons him with a tilt of his chin. 

Tom’s hands are abruptly everywhere, dragging palms up and over Joe’s constricted sides, thumbs flicking the little bows that run in vertical lines over the seaming. Taut as the corset is, it’s stiffly constructed and lined; it’s like the shoes in that way, where most of the heat of Tom’s touch is lost on Joe, but the drag of his fingers runs through the sprung form of the boning as though Tom’s big hands are spanning Joe’s entire chest, squeezing him effortlessly. Joe goes breathless and his nipples peak, rub against the cotton lining of the corset. “I want you inside me,” he says, and hooks his leg up over Tom’s side, lets his thigh rub back and forth on Tom’s hot flank for a moment before Joe lets his foot fall so the heel of his shoe scrapes carelessly into the back of Tom’s leg.

Tom comes unhinged in answer. He drops his whole weight down onto Joe, making Joe’s already shortened breath come in shallow dizzying gasps, and without pausing to slick himself up, he pins Joe’s leg open and pushes the head of his cock into Joe in a hungry wonderfully greedy if shortened thrust. “Sorry, fuck,” Tom says, immediately, but Joe is quick to fold his arms around Tom and hold him close, preventing him from rearing back up and withdrawing.

“Don’t stop,” Joe pants, “god, fuck me.”

Tom presses his hot face into the side of Joe’s neck and groans, hands sliding down to hold Joe’s hips steady as he rocks inside Joe in short but insistent motions. Joe’s mouth opens with concentration as he wills himself to let Tom in, but it’s difficult to think at all with Tom’s whole weight bearing him down into the mattress, Tom heavy and hot and everywhere, stealing Joe’s air from his very lungs when he lifts his chin and mouths Joe’s lips with affection if not accuracy. “You’re tight,” Tom says against Joe’s mouth, blurry and dazed, “you have such a tight hot pussy, god.”

Joe half-laughs, slipping out of character for an instant more from surprise than anything, but — alright, okay, Joe can — “Fuck me,” Joe says again, and wriggles a little so he can get his other leg wrapped around Tom. “Come on, fuck me hard, make me scream.”

Tom pushes up on his palms and grins down at Joe, wolfish and handsome and obviously delighted by him. “You think I won’t?” he says, shifting back and gathering his knees under him, sweeping his hands under Joe’s skirt again and hitching Joe’s ass up a little higher. His gaze breaks away from Joe’s face and does a sort of helpless appreciative sweep down Joe’s body, which Joe supposes is sort of worth looking at if only for the novelty of his chest heaving in the corset, his waist cinched in and his too-broad shoulders spilling out the top of the whole thing. “Gorgeous,” he says again, “fuck.”

Joe grins back at Tom and urges him down again, Tom bearing more of his weight on his elbows now and better able to roll his hips up into Joe from that angle. It’s slick enough, barely, delicious raw friction between them that eases little by little as Joe convinces his body to relax. He struggles, still, to catch his breath; he goes a little light-headed between the tight-laced corset, Tom’s body on his, and the almost-too-much stretch of Tom’s cock fucking into him. 

But soon enough Joe forgets everything but the delicious feeling of it, unable to do much more than hold his thighs open and cling to Tom’s broad shoulders. Tom fucks him and breathes hard and utters short beautiful curses, and Joe lets his head fall back against the mattress, digs his fingers into Tom’s skin, and decides not to care what sort of noises come from his mouth in answer.

“Can you wrap your legs around?” Tom asks, some indeterminate number of minutes later. 

Joe has to blink twice to remember that he even _has_ legs, and a third time to make sense of Tom’s request. Thank god for the straps on the shoes, Joe might have lost them by now otherwise, the way Tom’s fucking him so hard, the way Joe’s been writhing helplessly under him. But they’re still on his feet, tight-bound heels keeping Joe’s toes flexed and his arches taut. His feet are as neatly constricted as his ribcage. 

Joe drags his thighs up and digs his knees into Tom’s sides, crosses his ankles behind Tom’s back knowing full-well that the heels are heavy and too-hard, that he’s probably scraping red marks against Tom’s lower back and ass as he moves. Joe can guess, from the way Tom half-shouts and fucks Joe even harder, that it’s not exactly a deterrent for him.

Tom, actually, sounds like he’s on the verge of coming. Joe tilts one ankle and lets the heel claw in where it will, though it’s harder and harder to hold on with Tom rutting between his legs desperately. The angle is perfect, white-hot, and Tom’s pace has Joe incoherent, on the brink himself, except he can’t spare a hand to work himself off while he’s clinging to Tom like this, and Tom is far past the point of doing anything about it himself. 

Joe thinks vaguely that he’ll probably come in about two strokes of his hand after Tom’s finished, he’s that close — but then Tom drops down from his elbows again, forcing out what little air Joe’s collected in his lungs. Tom’s working into Joe in shallow hard thrusts with his belly tight against Joe’s cock, haphazard friction around satin and tulle and sweat and precome, not enough and not right but maddeningly close to being both. Joe kisses Tom’s mouth desperately and hitches his hips up because it feels amazing, and it’s not like Joe’s using his lungs for anything anyway, anything other than making these _sounds_ that are probably better stopped up by Tom’s lips. Joe struggles against the urge to breathe when he can’t anyway, and Tom fucks into him with the sudden erratic pace of approaching orgasm, and — and —

Joe comes.

He has no idea how it fucking happens — he’s never been able to come from getting fucked alone — except he’s probably accidentally stumbled over the whole reason that people like coming when they’re oxygen-starved. The world goes blotchy and dark for half a second before it explodes into a spangled, brilliant, light-headed climax. Joe turns his face away from Tom’s and gasps desperately, coming hard, spilling against satin and skin, even as Tom slams deep and gives a deep groan, joining him.

“Fuck, fuck,” Joe pants, scrabbling to get a hand between them as he regains uses of his limbs some moments later. He struggles, but manages to pop open the top three hook-and-eye closures that meet at the front of the corset. With that allowance and with Tom pushing up on his hands to help, he can breathe again, barely. “Holy fuck,” Joe says, and grins helplessly at Tom. “I came, did you notice?”

Tom’s nearly as winded as Joe, though from hard work more than actual lack of air. His mouth curls and he nods, not quite able to talk as yet, still looking impressively dazed. He shifts his weight over to rest on one hand and brings the other up to cup Joe’s jaw, tilt it at the right angle for a proper kiss with his thumb pressed firm and familiar over Joe’s pulse point. This being accomplished, he breaks away and slowly shifts until he slips free of Joe, making them both catch their breath. 

Joe only realizes how much he’d been straining to spread his thighs for Tom now that he can finally ease them closed again. The long muscles of his outer thighs jitter with their release. He closes his eyes and sighs softly, half relief and half satisfaction at the burn.

“No, no,” says Tom, “that’s for me to do,” so Joe lets his hands fall away from the top of one stocking where he’d been eager to pull the stick-fast inner part of the cuff away from his sweaty skin. Tom’s not usually like this, reverent and gentle where he can be efficient and matter-of-fact, but Joe’s still sort of dizzy and giddy; he’ll take it, it makes kind of a nice change. Tom strips the stocking down inch by inch, baring Joe’s skin to breathe and cool in the air of the room. 

At some point Tom pauses to unbuckle Joe’s shoe; it’s a totally different kind of relief when Tom wiggles Joe’s foot free. The heel might be a perfect fit but it’s still a heel, and Joe’s foot is far from used to being held rigid with toes flexed, pointed feet like a little girl’s doll. The groan Joe releases is low and probably too masculine but he can’t help it. It feels delicious when he stretches his toes out, and better yet when Tom pushes the heavy joint of one thumb up into the arch of Joe’s foot. It tickles, even through the silk.

It tickles more when Tom brings Joe’s ankle up a little and dips down to kiss the top of Joe’s foot, breath and whiskers poking through the weave of the silk. Joe tries to pull his foot back reflexively, laughing, but of course Tom’s not budging, just looking up at Joe with his mouth still brushing Joe’s instep. Joe wiggles his captive toes as well as he can, entreating with actions instead of words; Tom lets him go after another moment, another tender kiss. He’s less gentle now as he works the stocking the rest of the way off Joe’s foot, but that’s okay. Joe needs to find solid ground again now, he needs to find his — his _footing_ , god help him. 

Joe fiddles the corset open down the front and lets it fall away on either side of him while Tom strips down the second stocking and frees him of his shoe. It’s a joint effort to wriggle the skirt off Joe’s hips and down his legs. Joe kicks it off once it’s looped over one foot. It arcs over the edge of the bed and disappears, ruined anyway at this point. 

Joe’s left naked at last and more or less back to his normal self — as normal, anyway, as he can ever feel when he’s got Tom naked next to him, clambering up beside him, gathering Joe in and plying him with fond ardent kisses. Tom’s still stunning, too much to be believed, even after a year together.

“You didn’t take any pictures,” Joe points out, settling down finally with his head resting on Tom’s shoulder.

“Forgot,” Tom says. “Lost my head a bit.”

“Next time,” Joe says, not really thinking much about it, because — well, of _course_ they’re doing this again. Jesus christ. Of course they fucking are. “So, you totally don’t expect me to wear that shit on stage now, right?”

“Fuck, no, they’d tear you limb from limb,” Tom says, “you’re altogether too lovely in that get-up.”

“But then you knew that when you had it custom made for me,” Joe grins, guessing.

“I suspected,” Tom agrees, not denying anything.

“I could be Glinda the Good Witch,” Joe says, “only with, like, a torn bodice and fishnets, like goth Glinda and”—

—Tom slides a hand down Joe’s back and palms his ass cheek, lifts his hand and brings it down with a light smack.

“Fuck,” Joe says, eyelids fluttering closed, heat surging up into his face and futilely downwards too. “I can’t, right now. S’too much.”

“Then you’ll shut up and bask in the afterglow for a minute instead,” Tom says, amused and with roughened voice, giving Joe’s ass a friendly squeeze.

Joe huffs out a laugh and shuts his mouth. Basks. Listens to the soft steady thumping of Tom’s heartbeat under his ear. Thinks, a little dopily, about how fucking lucky he is.

**Author's Note:**

> Joe's corset is along the lines of [this one](http://www.etsy.com/listing/53035335/marie-antoinette-under-bust-steel-boned?ref=sr_gallery_12&sref=&ga_search_submit=&ga_search_query=corset+antoinette&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=US&ga_search_type=handmade&ga_facet=handmade) but over-bust and maybe slightly less froofy, with ivory instead of white highlights. And the pink would be more of a faded antique pink. Not that I've given this lots of thought or anything.


End file.
